“Only soccer for you?” she asked.
“Yeah. Those metal weights are heavy.”
She grinned, and they ventured on to the media room, with giant projection TV and seating for twenty-five.
“More like a movie theater,” she remarked.
He nodded. “Now I’m taking you to my favorite place in the entire house. He led her to a door, then down two flights of stairs and into the basement. They passed through a hall whose walls contained soundproofing material, and Miguel had to plug in a series of security codes on the electronic lock mounted on the next door. The door clicked open, and the lights ahead automatically flickered to cast reflections off a glistening white marble floor that unfurled for twenty meters. A rich black carpet divided the room in half, and on each side stood imposing metal display cases and display tables whose lights also switched on.
“What is this? Some kind of museum?” she asked, stepping inside, her heels clicking across the marble.
“This is my father’s weapons collection. Guns, swords, knives — he likes them all. See that door over there? Just inside is a shooting range. It’s pretty cool.”
“Wow, look at this. He’s got some bows and arrows. Is that a crossbow?” She pointed to the weapon hanging from a peg.
“Yeah, it’s, like, hundreds of years old or something. Come over here.”
He led her down toward a table where more modern-day handguns and other assorted weapons were on display. There were AR-15 long guns, MP-5 submachine guns, AK-47s that his father called “goat horns,” along with dozens of other handguns, some inlaid with diamonds, plated in gold and silver, and engraved with the family name, collectibles that his father said should never be fired.
“These are the ones we like to shoot,” he said, gesturing to a row of Berettas, Glocks, and Sig Sauer pistols. “Pick one.”
“What?”
He lifted his brows. “I said pick one.”
“Are you serious?”
“Have you ever fired a gun?”
“Of course not. Are you crazy? If my father found out …”
“We won’t tell him.”
She winced, bit her lip. So sexy. “Miguel, I don’t know about this. Won’t your father be upset?”
“No way. We come down here all the time,” he lied. It’d been a few years since he’d engaged in target practice, but she didn’t have to know that.
“Can we fire fake bullets, like in the movies?”
“You’re scared?”
“Sort of.”
He pulled her in to his chest. “Don’t worry. Once you get that feeling of power in your hand, you’ll be addicted. It’s like a drug.”
“I can think of something else I’d rather put in my hand.” She wriggled her brows.
He shook his head. “Come on. We’re going to be badasses and shoot some guns.”
She sighed and chose one of the Berettas. He picked a similar pistol, then crossed to a cabinet, worked the padlock there, and pulled out some of the magazines. He led her to the back door, plugged in the code, and they entered the range, again the lights automatically switching on. He took her to one of the shooting booths, where he loaded both of their pistols, then handed her the headphones and safety glasses.
“Do I have to wear these?” she asked of the ear protection. “They’ll mess up my hair.”
He started laughing. “What’s more important? Your hair or your hearing?”
“All right …” She flinched and slowly donned the headphones.
Once they were ready to shoot, he motioned that he’d go first and that she should really pay attention. He demonstrated how to hold the weapon, showed her the safety, and then he fired two rounds into the target, the shots going a little wide. He was rustier than he’d thought.
Then they moved over to her shooting booth. He got behind her, breathing deeply into her hair, and taught her how to hold the pistol. Then, ever so gently, he released her, tapped her on the shoulder, then signaled that she should fire.
She took two shots. Their targets were the silhouettes of men, the type used by military and law enforcement officers. She scored two perfect headshots.
“Whoa!” he cried. “Look at that!”
She glanced at him, dumbfounded. “Beginner’s luck, I guess! Let me try again.”
She did, flinched, and didn’t even hit the target with her third shot.
“Try again,” he urged her.
She complied, but this time she closed her eyes and the shot actually hit his target.
With a groan, she placed the gun on the small table in front of her, then wrung her hands. “The gun’s getting hot! And that hurt!”
He took off his headphones and glasses, the stench of gunpowder heavy in the air. “Let me see your hand.” He took her palm in his own and worked his thumbs into her soft skin. Then she moved in close, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and pulled herself tightly against him, rubbing her thigh against his crotch.
At that point, she had him. And within three minutes they were on the floor. Her moans echoed throughout the range, and he kept putting a finger to his lips, frightened that his father might’ve returned from his run to search for them. Castillo would know they were down there. He knew everything and would report to Jorge; however, Castillo would remain discreet in regard to the exact nature of their visit to the shooting range.
He suddenly broke away from her.
She sat up and pouted. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, it’s me.”
“Then we should talk?”
“I don’t know …it’s just …the fund-raiser, all these people …You know everyone my father hires is afraid to get fired, so they kiss our asses. But do they really like us? Maybe they think we’re just a couple of fools. They pretend to respect us, pretend to honor us, when behind our backs they curse us.”
“That’s not true. Think about what your father said last night. He’s a good man.”
“But most men still fear him.”
“Maybe you’re mixing up fear with respect.”
“Maybe I am, but the kind of power my father has is a scary thing, even to me. I mean, we can never really be alone.”
“Your father is using his position to do good in the world. And why are you even thinking about this now?”
He breathed deeply and finally nodded. He felt guilty as he got dressed. He hadn’t told her about the hidden security cameras. Their entire escapade had been recorded, because turning off the cameras would’ve immediately alerted Castillo. There was no privacy at Casa de Rojas, because its price was too steep.
They spent the day at the beach, swimming, taking pictures, and drinking. Even though Sonia wore a blue bikini, a few of the pics reminded him very much of his mother, since that shot in the library had been taken on the very same beach. Even their names were similar — Sofía/Sonia — and he began to place himself in the context of Greek tragedies.
Although they attempted to remain discreet, two of his father’s security men were there with them, seated on chairs about ten meters away, with Castillo not straying far from the pool deck to spy on them through a pair of binoculars.
“Those guys work for your father, too,” Sonia said, staring at them over the rim of her sunglasses.
“How can you tell?” he asked sarcastically.
“I guess you’re used to this, huh?”
“It was nice when we were in Spain. I think my father had some people there, but I didn’t know who they were, so I never really noticed them.”
She shrugged. “When you have money, some people hate you.”
“Of course. Kidnapping is never far from my father’s mind. He has friends who’ve suffered through terrible ordeals when their loved ones were taken. The police are useless. The ransom money is ridiculously high. You either pay or you never see your family again.”